


It's All One

by goodgirlwhoshopeful



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hinted Abuse, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Trafficking, and I'm hating this romelza drought, because I read somewhere that trafficking was rife, kidnap, romelza - Freeform, so tada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-09 21:18:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5555693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirlwhoshopeful/pseuds/goodgirlwhoshopeful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he had seen the men at the dock acting strangely, he had known they were up to no good.<br/>The men were smugglers, trading not in livestock or contraband, but women. </p><p>He'd almost left then, as all the girls had been lifted to safety. That is, until he caught sight of her. The last one, with fiery curls and peasant boy rags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All One

**Author's Note:**

> because I read somewhere that trafficking was rife and I'm hating this romelza drought..... so TADA. 
> 
> (Yes, I've been writing this instead of my uni assignment.... Sue me.)
> 
> ALSO - You may have heard already but I've been composing piano pieces recently inspired by Poldark, and specifically Romelza. 'Illusions' is the best so far and you can listen to it HERE:

Listen to my composition[ **"Illusions"** (Inspired by the bittersweet love and tragedy of Poldark)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARS6FL0Bx1g&feature=youtu.be)

* * *

 When he had seen the men at the dock acting strangely, he had known they were up to no good.

He just wished he had stumbled across their ships sooner, for who knew how long they'd been up to their treacherous business...

He'd been headed back adjacent to harbour at the Port of Penzance to find that god-awful woman – the wife of a friend of Father's, a Mrs _Teague_ – in the hope of acquiring a seat in her carriage when she came to journey back to toward Nampara the next morning – since he had not a penny left in his pocket, never mind enough for such a fare. He may have had a liquor––or _two_ ––in The Red Lion, as was his weakness and the difficulty of his first day back amongst society, (and the fact he was accompanied also by the ghosts of war).

Consequently, he had thought perhaps what he saw was a trick of his mind, at first.

Since arriving back in England not a day before, he found he was itching to return to his homeland – to reunite with his father... and Elizabeth. _God, Elizabeth,_ a wanton voice had groaned within the deepest shadows of his mind. _What a wondrous homecoming it will be._  

Squinting through the darkest in that moment, his mind's digression snagged and subsequently he fumbled back into the present with the sight of a group of grown men suspiciously bundling _wringing_ sacks into a ship at the dock. With a frown, he had decided to hide and watch them before making a move into their line of sight. As it turned out, the men were smugglers, trading not in livestock or contraband, but  _women._

After he had crept away and roused all those in the public house who were of the stock for a fight, Ross had bounded for the men with aggression that rivalled that of his enthusiasm on the battlefields of Virginia, for he was filled with  _rage_ suddenly, as the wasted lives of good men and the wasted years of his own life flashed before his eyes like a flag to a bull.

They could not have predicted what they found once the last of the smugglers fell to the ground cold.

Amongst the squaller they found when they wrenched open the lower deck hatch was at least ten girls – all were dirty, in their underclothing and terrified – though all seemed, at least outwardly, unharmed. Ross swallowed back his revulsion at such treatment of such fragile creatures – none could have been over eighteen – and hurried to order the mob of men he had gathered to disperse for help.

They cowered from him, which made his chest tight, as it became apparent that their treatment caused them to think in horror at the mere  _sight_ of a man... Even one still in military uniform... which left little to be desire in his imagination in regards to what they had been subjected to.

"I mean you no harm," he'd called into the space, holding out his hands as he would to a wild, spooked horse. "You are _safe_ now."

Despite his bloodied face, they did seem to take him at his word, each using the strength of he and some of the other inn-goers arms to pull themselves into the cool open air, greeted by the awaited maids who had gathered to donate all the cloth they had to cover the women in their modesty.

"Thank you, Sir!" cried the first he stepped to hawl from the small, crowded space, and he was taken aback by the trembling gratitude that shook her, and by the way she anchored to him with her arms around him...and by the fact she wasn't Cornish. Simply at a glance he knew many of these women were of low ranking birth – as it made it easy for smugglers to sell them because no one would notice, or make a fuss, all that much when they went missing. He took the physical embraces gladly, despite the fact such contact was not usually accepted by a gentleman, since he saw the terror and disbelief in their eyes – their need to truly believe their torment was over... Their need to feel kindness, closeness... _humanity,_ again.

He saw it in the whites of their eyes, the dark circles below their lashes and their swollen eyelids... where he also saw himself.

He'd almost left then, as all the girls had been lifted to safety. That is, until he caught sight of her.

In the corner, on the dusty wood boarding, lay one last girl. A waif of a girl, in fact. She shook in the rags she wore that resembled a peasant  _boy's_ clothes. 

Instantly, he jumped into the deep lower-deck cavern, shouting for the men for help. "There's one more!" She looked to be weaker than the rest – visibly trembling and barely conscious. A sweep of fiery hair lay matted around her head, a dark brown colour due to the grime that covered her, but he could see her natural fiery red colour in the dry curls that surrounded her face. He knelt beside her and swept his hand over her shoulder – attempting not to grimace at the skeletal feel of it under his hand – attempting to rouse her. 

She blinked at him, her eyes revealed to him as a deep, emerald green. Upon seeing a man in uniform, however, she instantly gasped and tried, despite her weak condition, to shuffle away from him on her forearms, choking on her own breath. 

"Shh, _easy_ girl!" He held out her open palms to her in an offering of peace. "You are safe now, child. I'm here to help you––"

"––Don't 'ee _child_ me, Mister!" she whimpered, attempting to be angry but falling short as she shook. 

Ross blinked as the accent of his native land of Cornwall came from her lips, having not expected it. There had been some regional accents amongst those he had helped thus far, but none from Cornwall. 

"You're alright," he murmured, laying his open hands out to her. "You're alright now."

Attempting to treat her with upmost tenderness and humanity, he removed his military tailcoat. "Here," he murmured in the darkness, helping her to pull it around her shaking frame. The girl was obviously ill, as sweat caped her brow and her hair, despite the cold and her shivers. Her cheeks were sallow and her eyes seemed too big for her head. The symptoms were unmistakable: malnutrition. 

"Allow me to help you out of here." His tone was more of a question than a statement, but he waited until her wide eyes met him before he moved in to touch her again. Slowly, he slid his hands underneath her bare knees and around her back, lifting her with ease across his arms and against his chest. He ignored the smell of the squaller conditions that lingered with her, or the dampness of the sweat on her skin. War had made such things futile; a mere fact of life. Ross saw little reason to be squeamish about them. 

"Wha' happened to 'ee face?"

He smirked, in spite of himself.  _Dwight's handiwork, that is what._ "War," he muttered gently. He lowered his eyes to her face and regarded her split lower lip and shining cheekbone, knowing full well how they came to be, since he had been in many a physical altercation himself. Only, he were fair. He had never been a child. "and _y_ _ours?"_

He heard her exhale, and that was all the answer he needed. 

As he moved to the tramp door that saw the girl's way out of captivity, he moved to hand her to one of the men waiting there, but found her hand gripping him in terror; terror of the unknown. Ross suspected the unknown had never been kind to this young woman...  _This_ child _,_ he swallowed a lump that suddenly settled in his throat. _She is but a child._

"I will be just here," he assured. "I simply cannot climb and hold you at the same time." Her frightened eyes remained wide and doubtful, so he found himself giving her his best smile he usually reserved for Elizabeth. "You have my word." 

As he, somewhat reluctantly, handed her over, he was surprised to see her eyes never leave him; even to the point that she rotated her head around toward him. "What be 'ur name, sur?"

He drew his weight on his arms and settle back on solid ground. "Ross Poldark," he called to her. Without waiting to be asked, he took her back from the young man, thanking him, though the young girl protested. "I  _can_ walk, sur!" But, even as she said it, her voice was but a croak. 

"You will do no such thing," he denied with a small smirk, making his way back toward The Red Lion. "You shall  _eat_ before all else."

Her eyes were wary and frightened, but the the seemed to alight with a curious spark, which intrigued him. "Wh'are 'ee?" she wheezed.

Despite the situation, or the way gentleman stared as he walked into the Red Lion and demanded a room while carrying a young girl, he smiled at her, looking down at his smudged, dusty uniform with mirth. "Somehow, I'm a captain." His tone was dry and she seemed to appreciate it. 

"That'll be th' uniform, then." She tried to hold conversation, but he could her struggle to stay awake. Even as she said it, however, she gripped his overcoat in her small, thin hands, as though reluctant to let it go, her eyes peeking out from its collar. 

"'Tis indeed, Miss..." He trailed, prompting her to inform him of her name.

The girl seemed shocked at the use of the title 'Miss' . "Carne... _Demelza_."

"Demelza." He tested the roll of the word on his tongue, deciding quickly he very much liked it. 

The innkeeper unlocking the room ahead of them for his hands were occupied, for which he was most grateful. The thanked the man, ignoring the look of slight disapproval he was given when the man thought he could not see. (He had developed all but eyes in the back of his head in Virginia). 

"Send for a doctor," he murmured to the man as lowly as possible over the redhead that was tucked under his chin, hoping his tone was as abrupt as he intended it to be. The impudence of the man.

Young Demelza stiffened in his arms at the sight of the bed, even in her hazy state, attempting to struggle against his hold as he lowered her to it. "No, Mister, no! No'again! _Please_ , sur! I cahn't go through it' 'gain, sur!––" 

He stared down at her with wide-eyed shock and concern as her breathing choked her, coming in short, sharp pants. 

"Miss Carne! Hey, hey!" He knelt beside her on the mattress, cupping his large hands about her head to look her in the eye. The reality of the situation dawned upon him: she assumed he was planning to... _have his way_ with her. Instantly, he breathed out a sigh of sorrow that such a young girl would know such acts from men. "I am not going to hurt you, girl," he scolded somewhat unfairly over her panicked noises. Instantly, he berated himself, as his tone did him no favours. Tears leaked from her eyes, though she dashed away each that came, and began rocking back and forth. 

"Shh, hey now..." He collected her trembling body against him as he sat upright at her side, her face imprisoned between her two, boney hands. He took a breath and paused before gently prying her hands from where they almost scratched at her own cheeks, gathering them in his own. "Hey now," he whispered, attempting to sooth her as one would a wild animal. At such contact, he watched her blink in puzzlement, which did not surprise him; the poor girl had most likely known no kind touch before, never mind one from a grown male stranger of the gentry. Even a part of his own mind asked him what he was doing, as such behaviour was not permitted anywhere in the society of his class – not unless with a lady of night, one's betrothed... or one's wife. 

That being said, Ross always seemed to find a connection with actions not of his class, as since returning from war he felt a disconnect from it. No man deserved to be born into such richest while others were born and lived all their lives with nothing. 

Men, rich or poor, bleed and die just the same on the battlefield. After Virginia, Ross knew that to be true. There was no blue blood through any of their veins. Not even the King of England himself. 

So, as he looked into the wide eyes of a girl so mistreated by this cruel cycle of destiny, he suddenly knew what he had to do. 

"We're all one," he murmured to himself as he observed his current predicament, realising he honestly did not mind what people may say – and say they would. Demelza, shaking and confused, now even weaker thanks to her outburst, then collapsed into his side, still drawled by his overcoat. Slowly, he let her slip down his side until he hand caught her in his bracketed upturned arms like an newborn, her head in the bend of his elbow staring up at him. In this position, now his coat had slipped, he could see truly how emaciated she was; bone protruding through her near-translucent skin as thought it might break through altogether. He felt sick at how famished she must be, knowing he himself had never known what it was to be hungry.

"Wha' 'ee do wi' me, sur?" 

The words were a fragile croak, not much more than a whisper, and, if Ross were a sentimental man––truly, he was––he would say they fractured his heart a little. 

" _Care_ for you." The words were out before her had even considered them, but found he did not regret them at all. "Make sure you are fed, well... and take you home to your mother." 

He watched as she struggled to swallow, as the movement was slow under the skin of her throat.

Leaning forward a fraction, he poured water one handed into the glass beside the bed, lowering it her. "Here. Small sips." Her eyes were open but half, but _still_ , she spoke to him. "I don't 'ave no mother... But why, sur? 'ee owes me nothin'... But I...owe 'ee...me life..." 

He felt the familiar tug of empathy. "Nor do I. Did yours die when you were young also? Where are your family? Sawle? Truro?" 

She blinked at him, stuttering back, "Yes, sur––um, when I was born––they in Illugan, sur..." 

Ross smiled down at her, trying to distract her from the painful sounding stuttering cough that bubbled up her throat. "I'll take you there. I'm a Cornish man myself."

At that, Ross felt like a man triumphant, for young Demelza Carne almost smiled. "'ee, sur?"

He chuckled, enjoying conversing with someone native to his homeland after so long away form its charms. "Indeed. Born and bred. My father ran Wheel Leisure, a long time ago... Do you know of her?"

Demelza attempted to nod, but closed her eyes. "I does, sur... Was a great shame she closed 'nd all, they say." 

Frowning at her deteriorating state, Ross debated storming down to ask the innkeeper what exactly was keeping the local physician so long, but somehow he knew this would disrupt Demelza...which he felt he had to avoid at all costs. Gently, he raised his bend arm that cushioned her head and offered her more water, which she sipped meekly, but did not open her eyes. With equal care, he smoothed some of the unruly tendrils away from her face, before reaching for the pitcher and pouring the smallest amount of cool water over her forehead. 

"Demelza?" She did not respond to his voice this time, other than with a soft, pained sigh, which did not settle well with Ross, as he tried not to fidget.

In the next few moments, the innkeeper knocked, carrying in with him a plate of bread and cheese "for the young's". At the sight of Ross in the role of caregiver, the man no long seemed to hold distrain in his eyes, but offered anything the girl needed free of charge, since she was from the smugglers boat he had just been informed of. "Awful, rotten business," he said. 

Ross simply agreed and thanked him, relieved to see the local doctor finally arrive to tend to Demelza. 

"Feed her incredibly slowly," the rather stout man said. Ross had little faith in physicians, but none, he knew, could be worse than Doctor Coake of Sawle, who seemed to believe even Christ himself could have been cured by leeches. "She must not eat with haste, or in large amounts. Her body is severely malnourished, so to do so would shock the system, perhaps fatally." Ross swallowed. "She has a fever, which should hopefully break now she is warm and dry. I have given by best herbal remedies to try to induce its breaking." As he went to quite the room, the man turned back to Ross with a beguiler look. "What of the other girls? I here there were more of them? If you do not mind my saying so, it does seem a little over your station to be playing nurse, Captain Poldark."

Ross ignored the man's comment for the girl's sake, for his reaction would not help her. 

"Most were not near as bad as this poor soul," the innkeeper spoke from the door. "They were at least walking and talking, hungry and traumatised, sure, but not...not ill. Most 'ave eaten downstairs and 'ave been offered shelter until they can find their way home. Apparently the smugglers were more... _opportunists_ than anything; snatched the girls simply which they went from harbour to harbour wi' their fish... Most are from not far at all."

Ross thanked the two men, barely touching his own stew provided by the inn, as he felt no appetite. Instead, in the new quiet of the room, Ross sat at the young girl's side and simply cooled her with a wet cloth, smoothing it over her brow and down her neck, over and over. He did not know how much time had passed, though he had long ridded himself of his cravat and military dress layers, Demelza's eyes reopened fully again, seeming to focus on his face again. 

"Thank 'ee, sur." 

The whisper almost made him jump, for in the dim, warm hue of the room, he had been so focused on his task he had not noticed her change in state. 

"No need for thank you's, Miss Carne... No need at all... We..." Even as he spoke, he did not move, nor halt his tendings to her. In his mind, he realised this entire situation must seem very strange to her...if not largely suspicious. After all, in her mind, why would he care? ... _why did he?_

"We're all one," she whispered back at him, causing his eyes to snap to hers in an instant, his reverie shattered like glass.

She had repeated his own vocalised musings back to him. She had understood... He found he was lost for a word to say, though, in response, somewhere deep, his mind formulated two clear words:  _kindred spirit._

"Yes." Her eyes seemed bright with pride that she had used his words back at him correctly, and he felt pride  _for_ her. Slowly, he picked up the plate of food and offered her a very small piece, repeating the warning the doctor had told him. "Yes. Exactly right."

Much later, as the sun began to rise and Ross dozed in the armchair by the fire, Demelza long fed and unconscious with sleep, Ross found her words,  _his words,_ her  _voice,_ echoed repeatedly though him.  _How_ could a girl of such clear poverty and such immature age have understood him? Understood that he had been trying to say:  _this is what I must do, as my duty as a human being. There should be no surprise or questioning of it. You bleed, I bleed. Rich or poor; we are all one._

 

Hours and hours later, that same young miners daughter accompanied Ross Poldark in (a rather reluctant) Mrs Teague's carriage, unable to sit above with the footmen, Ross argued, due to her incredibly recent ill-health and present physical weakness.  She had protested his insisting her be in the carriage at all, adamant she would be just fine up able with the footmen and the men who held the reigns. Ross, however, would not hear of it. Gently, he placed her in the empty seat beside him and covered her with his cloak. ("You may want to sleep throughout the journey," he had muttered to her. Ridding himself of his cloak, he found himself smirking. "Here... Sleep beneath it. It will mean you much safer from Mrs Teague's sharp tongue... She rivals that of even Virginia's snakes.") She had smirked right back at that.

Upon reaching for the cross-roads for Illugan, and incidentally the road to Trenwith, Ross helped her down, still reeling from revelation of his father's passing, which he had discovered en route while, much like he advised to Miss Carne, he had feigning sleep.

As the young girl watch her kick up stones, he knew that this would be goodbye... and for some reason, his chest was tight at the thought. 

She told him thank you, again, which he shook off, again, and, strong now from two full meals, she went about her way.

"'ee, Sur, 're like no one else I's ever known," she called on the wind as he went one way and she the other. He smiled at the ground, unusually warmed by the compliment. 

"I could say the same," he countered, before turning to walk again. "All the best to you, Miss Carne." 

 

 

 

It was less than an hour later that he discovered about Elizabeth and Francis...that discovered that all that he fuelled his return...was not his to hope for. 

That night, he was too preoccupied to think of Demelza again, too caught up in his self-pity to consider the days events prior to his heartbreak.

 

 

 

 

Then, one market day, Ross Poldark found Demelza Carne again.

 

 

That evening, after it had been revealed to him that her ill-treatment also spread to where she was meant to feel safe, at  _home,_  he had invited her to be his kitchen maid, which, unsurprisingly, she accepted...with the slight condition of her mongrel.

She sang this time around, something she had no done before, which had the knot in his throat return, for she was clearly happy for the first time in all the time he had known her...which did not seem fair. As he rode with her sharing his saddle back to his reclusive sanctuary, he considered it all. 

An illiterate miners daughter from Illugan...had understood his philosophical mutterings practically just as he had understood them himself.

They were strangers, she had been ill, perhaps delirious, starving... It was all so implausible... _impossible.._. and yet,  _it_  simply was.

 _"And so it will be,"_ he whispered to himself. _"So it will be."_


End file.
